


wip amnesty: bad desire

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: WIP Amnesty, a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:07:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15175379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: a never-to-be-completed carolina hurricanes A/B/O fic.





	wip amnesty: bad desire

**Author's Note:**

> a sinking ship where the passengers are being thrown overboard by the captain in the distant hope it will lighten the load enough to undo the damage: the carolina hurricanes. there was a 1/100 chance this was ever going to get finished and pretty lindy being punted to calgary turned that into 0/100. rip in peace.

Sebastian Aho’s Limited Experience with Being an Omega in the NHL, as follows:

  1. Finns are Finns about it. No surprises there.
  2. Canadians are friendly, if reserved. Reserved is something Sepe can handle. Great.
  3. Americans are nightmares. Not even bad nightmares, necessarily, just- the human equivalent of a dream he has sometimes where he’s on the ice for a faceoff and realizes he’s completely naked. The Betas are somehow worse than the Alphas.  
  4. Swedes are... Swedes, sort of like how Finns are Finns, but throw in a language barrier. No one messes with him, so it’s fine.
  5. Russians, Czechs, Slovenians- no data, as of yet. He supposes he’ll learn, one way or another.



Overall, it’s not the hellscape he grew up hearing about, though it might’ve been, must’ve been at one point in the not terribly distant past. He’s still getting used to everything, and it’s a slow, sometimes painful process. Evidence, experience, example: the first time he strips down after a practice, the whole locker room goes still. Sepe  _ knows _ better, is the thing- he never would’ve done it in a Leijonat changing room, but there’s just so much here that’s unfamiliar, that catches him off guard and knocks him stupid with uncertainty.

_ Forgive me _ , he thinks into the absolutely silent roar, the lack of breathing loud as thunder in a room that should be filled with friendly chirping,  _ for forgetting for even a moment. _

The bated-breath freeze frame is broken, finally, by Rask of all people. He makes a noise that is somehow a shrug and strips his own practice jersey over his head, tossing it in his bag and setting to work on his pads as if nothing’s happened.

Which, Sebastian would like to point out: is true. Nothing fucking happened, because people aren’t animals and pheromones don’t completely dictate-

He lets out a shaky breath, thankful the sound is covered by the slightly embarrassed flurry of movement around him while everyone makes up for lost time, picking up threads of conversation just a bit louder than necessary, doing their best to prove they’re all _ cool  _ and  _ fine _ .

Sepe hasn’t taken off his undershorts yet, and like hell will he do it now. It’ll be an uncomfortable drive to Teuvo’s apartment, but god forbid Sebastian Aho show a hint of thigh in a locker room full of grown men who look no different from him, give or take some pounds and years.

He glances up to check for Teuvo, see if he’s back from the showers yet (and god, wouldn’t a shower be nice, keep dreaming, Sebastian), but instead makes eye contact with Lindholm. His mouth is twisted into an expressive frown, and when he realizes he’s been caught looking, his top lip snags up to reveal his teeth- not a smile but a snarl, one canine glinting in the fluorescent lighting before he drops his gaze back to his equipment bag.

Sepe’s heart thuds in his chest, rapid and nearly painful with the spike of anxiety, but he keeps his expression neutral as he turns back to his stall. He grabs his wadded up practice jersey and sets about folding it, focusing on steadying his trembling hands while he waits for Teuvo to appear, please, god, soon.  

It’s just the once, though. After that, Sepe doesn’t forget- and he’s not even sure it would be an issue if he did, once they’ve all started settling into each other. But- why tempt fate, why make things more awkward than they strictly must be? So things with the guys are better than he expected, in a lot of ways. The Betas seem to forget, a lot, that he isn’t one of them, and that’s perfect. Sepe gets put on a line with Jeff Skinner and nearly decides to stitch their fucking jerseys together, it’s so goddamn nice.

The Alphas are, necessarily, interesting.

At least with someone like Hanifin, Sepe knows what to  _ do. _ All Hanny really wants from his cocksure Alpha routine is a laugh, and Sepe can give him that. He can spare a tiny smile when Hanifin loudly complains about the league-standard cups being too tight on his  _ massive Alpha dick _ . When he turns down Hanifin’s ridiculous, over-the-top advances, they can smirk at each other, chuckle about it and move on. He even likes Hanifin in a way he didn’t think he’d really like any of his North American teammates.

Staal is attentive and helpful, Faulker is what Sebastian imagines a big brother would be, Bicks is big and funny and Sebastian likes him quite a bit, actually.

Lindholm is another beast entirely. And beast really is the best word for it.

The Hurricanes are a young team, on the whole: lots of baby Alphas awkwardly butting heads and baby Betas trying to follow the stupid, exhausting politics of it. But they aren’t animals. Everyone does their best to stay level headed and keep some semblance of peace.

But then there’s Lindholm, who wavers between standoffish and snarling, who doesn’t joke about being an Alpha because he’s too cool for that, or too Alpha for it, or both, as far as Sepe can tell. He looked Sepe in the eye the first time they shared the ice, scrunched his nose and curled his lip, and that was that. Game over. They’ve never spoken a single word off the ice, which Sebastian can only assume is for the best.

Still, Swedes stick together and there’s a herd of them on the Canes, so it’s a little disappointing to miss out on talking to half of his new team just because one sour-mouthed baby Alpha can’t handle sharing the ice with an Omega.

Like it’s the fucking Dark Ages.

Honestly.

* * *

 

Teuvo is a godsend.

He’s scentless and calm and quietly funny, and Sebastian sinks into him like a warm bath. Teuvo murmurs _ huomenta  _ each morning, a small gift from home, and  _ onnea _ while they stand for an anthem that doesn’t belong to either of them, waiting for the puck to drop and start the one thing in this place that doesn’t leave Sebastian feeling unmoored.

Hockey is hockey, and that at least is familiar.

Practices are exhausting, but that’s nice in its own way. There’s no language barrier for being doubled-over on the ice, bumping shoulders and panting so hard it’s nearly nauseating.

Games are exhausting, exhilarating, so nerve racking it feels like his heart might just give, sometimes. He wings a line for Jordan Staal and they kill it- and Jordan Staal is big and blond and familiar, if Sepe thinks about him a little sideways, and in the locker room after the game Sepe can still feel the way he’d folded easily into Jordy’s side after he’d gotten the last goal.

He waits out the other guys, pulling his pads off without removing his jersey and offering small, pleased smiles when people bump him, congratulate him on a three point night. The room empties slowly, but it does empty, even Teuvo ducking out after Sepe gently brushes off his invitation to come over for a late dinner.

He declines, just needs to be here, to think, for a little longer. None of them would really understand, but Teuvo comes closer than anyone, and he taps two knuckles softly against Sebastian’s shoulder before he leaves.

The room is different when it’s empty. Backwardsly smaller, somehow. Sebastian strips his last remaining bits of sweat-soaked clothing and slinks to the showers. They look like any other team showers he’s ever been in, not dirty but not exactly pristine. Not quite enough soap to mask all the competing musk, so he wrinkles his nose against it while the water heats. If he closes his eyes, lets the water hit him, lets it run into his ears, it's almost, almost like he's just- just a regular part of the team. Just like any of them. The rush of the shower could be voices, Jordy's rumble or Slavin's soft response. They could all be here, and he could be here, and it wouldn't matter. 

He misses his sweet Betas. That’s the long and the short of it. Pulju and Pate, his wings, his friends. Home in a way that was more than just shared language: the way they made him laugh, made him more himself, the buffer they provided that allowed him to just _ be _ .

_ The rest wasn’t terrible either _ , Sepe admits, watching the soap suds swirl lazily down the drain. Pate’s big frame and Pulju’s  _ mouth _ -

Soft heat curls low in his belly, enough of a warning sign that he could stop if he wanted- should stop. But it’s late, and he’s tired, and he’s been too  _ off  _ to be turned _ on _ for months now, has barely gotten off since the first time he put on a Carolina sweater. He's running a hand down down his belly with robotic resignation when there's a noise from the doorway, and then an absolute  _ assault _ of hectic, confused scent rolling through the steam. 

He doesn't really need to look up to know it's Lindholm, would recognize the heady, too-much of his smell almost anywhere now since he spends so much time avoiding it, but he looks up anyway, brows swooping together in irritation. Lindholm's wide-eyed, face blazing.

_ Good _ , Sebastian thinks, perhaps a bit unkindly.

Lindholm makes a strangled noise, head rearing back and eyes slamming shut, face twisting up in apparent disgust. He seems to forget himself, barking out some question in harsh Swedish. 

Sepe refuses to let Elias Lindholm ruin his shower, even if his pulse is hammering in his temple now. He pushes his wet hair out of his face and glares, just in case Lindholm decides to open his eyes again. Sepe calls, "Don't know what you say," over the water before ducking his head back under the spray. He's soft now, blessedly, because ridiculous spikes of fear will do that, but there's still the uncomfortable feel of slick that he now needs to rinse off, and he doesn't particularly care to put a hand up his ass with Lindholm present, call him prudish. 

Sepe does the best he can speeding through the rest of his shower, and when he looks up Lindholm is still standing there with his eyes closed like an idiot. 

"What?" demands Sepe sourly, turning the water off and grabbing his towel off the wall rack. 

Lindholm flinches, lip snarling up, but Sepe ignores him, scrubbing the towel through his hair and then down his chest, legs, back-

"Sorry."

The word is halting, but it's enough to make Sepe glance up from drying carefully between his fingers. Lindholm is still red-faced, and he looks silly with his eyes squeezed shut like a child. 

Sepe wraps the towel around himself before ducking past Lindholm and back into the main locker room. 

* * *

(blah blah blah handwaving roughly 3000+ words need to be between where we just left off and where we are picking up but it's not happenin', buddies)

“I was-” He pauses, frustrated and tired of meeting everyone more than halfway in a language he knows but not so well as his own. He almost wishes Teuvo were here, awkward conversation be damned, but more than that, suddenly, violently, he longs for Puljujärvi. Pulju who could make him laugh even when he was angry enough to spit, who never pushed him to say more than he could say.

Exhaustion washes over Sebastian, a dark, heavy wave that forces a sigh from the deepest ache in his chest.

“In charge,” he says, not quite the right word, but good enough for Elias Lindholm. “The three of us, I was in charge.”

And Lindholm can think what he wants about that, Sepe decides, shoving the last straggling pieces of gear into his bag. If Lindholm thinks he's a diva, a mistake, a casualty waiting to happen– then it's his own damned problem. There's a car in the parking garage just waiting for Sepe to throw his bag in the passenger seat and drive , to an apartment that isn't home yet, but it's away, at least.

It's almost anticlimactic that Lindholm does seem to plan on keeping his thoughts to himself, because he doesn't say anything as he watches Sepe sling the bag over his shoulder, teeth clenching when the strap lands over the bruise Hanifin’d given him yesterday.

“Carry it on your other shoulder,” Lindholm orders, a baby Alpha growl that’s far more bark than bite. Sepe could sidestep stronger orders in his sleep. And anyway-

“This one hurt less,” he argues, tightening the strap just to be contrary, even though it makes his blood sing through the meat of his shoulder. “Night.”

Lindholm doesn't answer, not that Sepe was holding his breath for it. He makes it about three steps towards the exit before the strap of his bag slides down his arm, and he turns to catch it only to find Lindholm pulling it away and shrugging it onto his own shoulder.

“Hanifin hit too hard at practice,” Lindholm says, leading the way out of the locker room with Sebastian’s bag slung across his back like he has any right to it. “We always tell him, he gonna hurt someone.”

What are you doing? Sebastian thinks stupidly. What is this? He doesn't ask out loud, partially because he doubts Lindholm would answer and partially because he wants to see how this will go- if the all-knowing Elias Lindholm will bother to ask which car belongs to Sepe or if he'll just stand in the middle of the parking garage like that was the plan all along.

Neither of those things happen, because Elias Lindholm knows which car is Sepe’s.

How, Sepe thinks, but doesn't ask. It might come across as sounding impressed, and he isn't.

 

* * *

(handwave handwave handwave)

 

Lindholm’s room is a wreck.

Sebastian doesn’t realize he’s frowning at the mess until he glances at Lindholm and finds himself being watched.

“I never-” Lindholm starts, then grimaces and makes half a crude hand gesture.

Sepe isn’t sure what his face does, but it must be something , because Lindholm scowls, suddenly defensive.

“It’s not weird,” Lindholm says, taking Sebastian’s confusion for disgust or disdain. “Lots of people don’t.”

And Sepe knows a lot of people don’t have sex. It’s just that he hadn’t imagined Elias Lindholm was one of those people.

“Don’t like it?” Sepe asks cautiously, watching Lindholm’s face carefully.

The question must not be what Elias is expecting because he stops scowling, but his brows knit into a nearly pained expression. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and Sebastian couldn’t agree more. The empty beer bottles on the floor might as well be laughing at them now.

“I get...” Lindholm struggles for a word, tongue between his teeth while he looks anywhere but Sebastian, thinking hard. “Nervous,” is what he lands on, though the dent between his brows suggests it’s not quite what he wants.

Sebastian just waits, watching in fascinated silence as Elias fidgets uncomfortably on the other side of the bed.

Elias glances at Sebastian once before looking away quickly, tucking his hair behind his ears before shaking it loose again. “It’s… lot of pressure? Makes me nervous, to think about doing that to someone.”

The meaning arranges slowly in Sebastian’s head, and he has to bite back a disbelieving huff. “You just don’t want to be in charge!” Sebastian says, sounding unnecessarily accusatory even in his own ears.

Elias grimaces. “Not that, so much, just. Don’t want to do it wrong.”

There are, Sebastian supposes, ways to do it wrong , but... Well, once you start doing it, he personally feels the right and wrong things make themselves clear pretty quickly.

“What you going to do wrong?” he presses, and Elias’ face is beyond pink now.

“Too fast, too slow... I don’t know!” he adds, laughing a little self-consciously at the way Sepe’s looking at him so flatly. “Where do you even start?”

“Fingers,” Sepe offers blandly, dropping his eyes to the way Elias is wringing his hands. His knuckles are red and tender from how hard he’s been squeezing them, but his hands are nice, otherwise. Clean nails, thick fingers. Pretty.

Elias chokes, jerking back so hard he nearly rolls off the bed. His eyes are so wide that Sebastian wants to laugh, but he controls the urge, guessing Lindholm might take it as a cruelty. Once Elias gets ahold of himself, they’re at a bit of an impasse. Sebastian is waiting on Elias to continue, while Elias is watching Sebastian like he’s half-waiting for some kind of attack.

“You have?” he asks finally, head tilted a little, cautious still.

“Yes,” Sebastian answers readily. “Not since NHL, but before, yes.”

Elias nods once, looking down at his own hands and remaining quiet, thinking hard.

“Don’t need to be nervous,” Sebastian offers after half an eternity of watching Elias frown at nothing in particular. “Easy once you start.”

He is undeniably interested in at least the idea of Elias Lindholm. Maybe even a little more now, knowing Lindholm’s not even half as self-assured as he’d always assumed.

He looks impossibly young. Uncertain. Sebastian reaches for his face, hesitating just short of actually touching his fingertips to the high shocked red of Elias’ cheekbone. The heat of it radiates, though, makes Sepe flex his fingers before bypassing Elias’ face entirely in order to push the loose dirty-gold strands of his hair back behind his ear.

They’re carefully, almost comically still for a moment, Sepe’s hand resting against the flushed spine of Elias’ ear, Elias’ bottom lip caught nervously between his teeth. It’s such a familiar expression that it breaks the moment and Sepe laughs, startled, pulling his hand away to cover his own mouth.

“What?” Elias asks, rocking back so he’s sitting up on his heels, hands clenching reflexively at his own thighs.

Sepe pushes himself up onto an elbow so he can reach out and lightly tap one finger to Lindholm’s swollen lip. “Rask always say you going to bite it off sometime. Careful.”

He still feels a twinge of- something when he sees the loose pouch of soft skin near the base. He knows better, but there’s still a beat of trepidation when he remembers all the old (disproven) beliefs about “bonding.” It was all garbage, always- scaremongering trying to keep people in place for the sake of the church. Still, some people believe it. It’s hard to unlearn, bullshit or not.

Lindholm is shifting nervously against the pillows, hands edging towards his hips like he wants to cover himself. It’s understandable; Sepe wouldn’t be particularly comfortable with someone eyeballing his bare cock with no comment.

“Ever-?” Sepe starts, and then realizes he doesn’t actually know the word for knot in English, because why the fuck would he. He makes a fist, grimacing awkwardly as he holds it up for Elias to parse.

He looks confused for about half a moment before his skin absolutely blazes red, hands abandoning his virtue in order to cover his face. He says something in Swedish, softly horrified, and Sepe has to bite the inside of his cheek hard so he won’t laugh.

It’s disorienting, having to so completely change his perception of Lindholm so quickly, but it’s not bad.

He rocks up onto his knees, carefully edging into Elias’ space to pull his hands away from his face. “Just a question,” Sepe soothes. “Some do, some don’t. Curious.”

Elias is burning a hole in the ceiling, lip pulled back nervously between his teeth. Sepe makes a soft, disapproving noise and presses a fingertip to the bitten-white skin, tugging gently to pull it free. Elias loosens his teeth so his lip rolls free, but Sepe leaves his finger in place, touching the warm spit-wet skin of Elias’ bottom lip with something approaching fascination.

“No,” Sepe guesses, watching the blood flow back into Elias’ lip, turning it a shocking, punchy pink against his pale skin. Well , Sebastian thinks, a mental shrug before he removes his finger from Elias’ lip and replaces it with his tongue.

He tastes clean, and Sepe hums appreciatively at the easy give of his mouth, shifting forward until his knees are bracketing Lindholm’s hips and he can bear down a little harder, getting a hand on Lindholm’s slack jaw so he can move him the way he’d like.

Lindholm’s hands flutter uselessly against Sepe’s sides, fingertips glancing off his ribs- nervous, Sebastian realizes distantly. Uncertain.

He holds back an impatient scoff and reaches blindly to grab one of Lindholm’s hands and press it firmly against his skin, unspoken permission, and Lindholm follows obediently, resting both palms just above the band of Sebastian’s sweats. The warmth of them, the dry drag of his calluses- it’s briefly distracting, and Sebastian twists his hips experimentally in the tentative grasp.

He breaks away finally, sitting back on his haunches- it settles him with Lindholm’s cock resting snugly between his cheeks, but that’s more interesting than uncomfortable at this point.

Lindholm- Elias, probably, at this point, maybe even Lindy - looks lost. His cheeks are flaming a hectic red, lips burnt pink from Sepe’s mouth and his own teeth, and his eyes are so wide they look like they might pop out at any moment.

  
  


(they bone. the end)


End file.
